


AMAHL'S GIFT

by vanhunks



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7377190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanhunks/pseuds/vanhunks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After almost a year, a young Lieutenant Chakotay, on shore leave, tries to visit Kathryn at the Academy, presenting her with a gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AMAHL'S GIFT

* * *

 

PART ONE

"What's that, Chak?" Ensign James Matthews asked as he entered Chakotay's quarters. "Something for your reclusive and enigmatic Kathryn Janeway?"

Chakotay sighed as he looked at Jimbo, his best friend. The man had entered his quarters without knocking first. But then that was so like Jim. The man never knocked and one of these days he was going to change his codes to keep Jim out of his quarters. 

He followed Jimbo's eyes to the article that lay on his bed. Encased in a fine glass square box, the flower arrangement looked even more delicate -  velvety soft leaves that appeared to glisten with late morning dew. They were fresh flowers which, in its protective casing, remained fresh, with the tiniest of irrigation tubes lined along the base that concealed a little reservoir spraying mist on the blooms every few hours.

They were almost above Earth's Space Dock where they would disembark for a few weeks' vacation. James Matthews, son of an admiral, had his vacation already worked out to the finest of strategies which would ensure his girls never accidentally met.

"None of your business, Jimbo. Haven't you got your Christine and Cloris and Celestine and – "

"Caitlin – "

"Caitlin. Haven't you got a tryst with one of them?"

James gave him a jaundiced look and curled his lips derisively, though his manner was neither sarcastic or malicious. James, Chakotay thought, was one of those individuals who rarely displayed anger, even though there may have been the few occasions that he had reason to give vent to such emotions.

James charmed the ladies. That was his protection against life and the weapon he used to punish those near and dear to him. Now his friend just shook his head, the almost white-blonde hair so straight that it bobbed and swished against his scalp.

"This isn't about me, Chakotay. And don't you dare look at me like that. The girl's been giving you the cold shoulder since your mother died. How long ago was that? Nine months.  Since last May and it's February now. Say, you never told her your mother died, right? You never told her you went to Dorvan V when your father whom you hate, asked you to come, right? Why let her harbour an illusion about you? You want to remain mysterious, or something?"

"Or something. Now scat!"

Jimbo stood his ground.

"I'd like to give you some good advice from a great friend, Chakotay, and that is to forget the girl. But I can't. She hasn't seen you on the Carpathia pining for her, though to the rest of the crew one would never have said it. She hasn't seen you after that first communication with her when she refused to speak with you. She hasn't seen you shut yourself off from the rest of the world, thinking that no one would notice. She hasn't seen you after a second and third and fourth attempt trying to reach her at the Academy and then her room mate telling you she doesn't want to have anything to do with you. Yeah, I'd like to tell you to forget her. But I know what you've been through and I know you, Chak. This was no casual fling. In fact, I've never known you to have casual flings. I can drop my Christine and Celestine and Catriona and Cloris and Caitlin in an instant - "

Chakotay stared open-mouthed at James.

"What?" James asked.

"In an instant, huh."

"Yeah. In an instant. But you...this is nothing casual. You fell for Cadet Janeway and you're as constant as all the stars in heaven, my friend. You lost your heart and someone - Cadet Janeway - owns it. You're never going to feel differently about another person in your life. That's just the way you are and I love you for it. No...you can't forget her, can you?"

Shocked, he could only continue staring at  his friend. This was the James no one knew. Chakotay expelled his breath slowly. One day, James would have someone for whom he would lay down his life and her name was sure as hell not going to start with the letter C.

"No... I can't. Keep it to yourself, okay?"

James laughed, his own lapse into sombreness broken. He picked up the glass casing and held the top close to his face to inhale through the small holes dotted along the top.

"They're the sweetest smelling roses this side of Earth. Where'd you get them?" Jimbo  asked as held the box and made a big production of smelling the whitish-peach blooms, as if he actually held a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

"Jimbo, get out of here."

Jimbo placed the box down on the bed and raised his hands.

"Okay, okay!" he laughed. "Just let me know how it went, okay? She's a tough little thing, keeping you at bay like that. I think she likes you. That day at the hospital she took no notice of me, although she was blind at the time. But you know what I mean. She had eyes only for you, in a manner of speaking. Why, I'm hurt  that she saw right through me. I'm p - "

"Jim…"

"You more than like her, Amahl," Jimbo said, the sombre air returning, using the name Chakotay had used when he first met Kathryn.

Amahl. Chakotay.

Stupidly a name he had taken in order to remain hidden, the only reason he could think of in the last nine months for his decision to use another name, a way of denying his heritage, his entire tribal affiliation. He hated it then. Now, slightly less intense since his mother died.  Amahl. Chakotay shook his head. It was the first mistake he made and the rest became little mistakes following in the wake of choosing to be what he was not.

Jimbo was right. He more than liked Kathryn. He hadn't liked it that his best friend thought he was transparent and this time he allowed Jim the privilege of being right. The man had startling blue eyes and hair almost white. A real lady-killer and right now, a ladies man. The son of an admiral, he never seemed to struggle in his life. Yet now, as  Chakotay looked at his friend he noticed for the first time the lines of strain around Jimbo's eyes. He relented a little.

"Yeah. But I left her in the lurch, Jim. She's never forgiven me for that."

"Chak, my friend, you have probably the best reason in the quadrant for letting her down. Tell her about what happened, man."

"What, and have her laugh in my face? She's never seen me, remember? Not that she hasn't looked at my picture in the Federation database  - "

"She's playing hard to get. I know girls - "

"She's eighteen, for heaven's sake. An admiral's daughter. What have I got to offer her?"

"A bunch of the most beautiful roses in the quadrant?"

"You know what I mean - "

"And I know what I mean, Chakotay. You told me she liked you, that she accepted you and even tried to get to know more about your family. Does that sound like someone who acted like Miss Priss? You underestimate Kathryn Janeway. A pretty little thing – "

"Beautiful."

"Okay, okay. A beautiful little thing, even if I say so myself. She's not like that other admiral's daughter, little fastidious Miss Prissy Ravenscraig who got herself knocked up by Mr Academy Senior. She told you you weren't good enough for her. She told you you were too Indian. Imagine that. Chakotay who didn't want to be Indian, being told he's too much of it. I don't think your Kathryn - "

"Now it's _my_ Kathryn." Chakotay sighed.

"Yeah, your Kathryn isn't like that, trust me."

Jimbo was right. Chakotay knew Kathryn. As Amahl she accepted him wholeheartedly. She had been intrigued by him, had used her fingers to trace his face because she was blind and had sensed almost intuitively that he was "of a different race" as she had put it. He had been afraid, scared out of his wits but afterwards relieved at her unconditional acceptance of him, even though he posed as Amahl. It had been hard to admit to her he was Native American after Prissy Ravenscraig had done her racist number on him. He had been too diffident then, too girl-shy, too young even, to retaliate at the Prissy Ravenscraigs and tell them just where to get off. Now that admiral's daughter was Prissy Ravenscraig with a young child fathered by a Romulan. Who knew? Maybe Prissy's outlook changed when she met and fell for her Romulan and had a child by him. When you're young, he decided, it was easy to climb on a platform of morality and broadcast your outrage at injustice or, worse, single others out and demean them simply because they looked different.

Kathryn, as Jimbo pointed out, wasn't like that.

They had kissed, passionately shared a first kiss that sent shivers down his spine, his whole being in a burning surge of flames that she liked him, that she not only responded to his kiss, but wanted to remain close to him, be his girlfriend and later… He sighed. He had never in his life felt so out of control, so at a loss as to define his sudden, inexplicable and totally thrilling and scary bond with Kathryn Janeway. She had awakened feelings in him so alien he had no idea how to define the rationale of his actions after that kiss. Everything that he felt during those two weeks, every visit, every pull of the comb through her wet hair when she complained she couldn't comb her hair and had been so frustrated, every movement that kept his gaze transfixed on her, every syllable that issued from her red-lipped mouth…distilled into one wondrous atom of knowledge – he wanted to protect her. She brought out every instinct in him to do just that. It was new, thrilling and he had been too shy to tell her anything of himself. What little she knew, she  had wrested from him.

But he had deceived her. He deceived her and disappointed her when he didn't turn up in Indiana. He couldn't decide which was worse. As far as Kathryn was concerned, it was both.

Yes, he more than liked Kathryn. Kathryn who knew him as Amahl…

"You okay, Chak?" he heard Jimbo asked.

Chakotay sighed. Jim's eyes remained on him.

"Yeah, I guess I am…"

*** 

When Jim had left, Chakotay sat down on the bed. The flowers were still very fresh, the roses slowly emerging from their bud stage. Jim had left him thinking and he thought how ironic that was. Jim was flighty at times, still remained an ensign though he liked being in Starfleet and  had been one of the best Academy cadets. James wasn't bucking for promotion as they had witnessed the many young cadets who had graduated after them, trying to brown nose their way up the Starfleet ladder. He himself had been promoted to Lieutenant junior grade and was doing his work well. It wasn't that he was actively ambitious, but he committed himself to every mission and gave more than his best.

Taking command track in his senior year paid off, his superiors more inclined to entrust him with responsibility.

He had turned ice-cold the day his father contacted him. He hadn't seen his family since he left Dorvan V in such great anger and much of it dissipated instantly when he learnt of his mother Hannah's illness.

And though he had rushed to Dorvan V, news of her pending death couldn't have come at a worse time.

He had just met Kathryn, fell head over heels in love with her, tried to write it off as a crush but couldn't, found that she liked him too and they had become great friends. More than friends, was what he hoped. She had been blind then and he had, through Jimbo's insistence, visited her every day at the hospital. She had invited him to Indiana. He had made a solemn promise he'd be there. He promised he'd be back with her at the hospital when Dr Pulaski would remove the blindfold. Kathryn had looked so forward to his daily visits and he who had been too reticent in the past to attach himself to any girl, couldn't help the ridiculous fluttering in his inside just thinking of Kathryn with her long bronze hair, the way she at times nervously touched the metallic blindfold.

Even now, he could feel the softness of her lips under his, her complete surrender to her emotions just as he had surrendered to her.

He had been packed, ready to leave for Indiana when Kolopak hailed him on subspace.

Yes, he thought as he materialised at the transporter terminals at Starfleet Headquarters and headed for the flitters that would take him to his apartment near San Francisco Bay, his return to Dorvan V couldn't have come at a worse time.

****** 

PART TWO

Kathryn looked at the screen, her mind numb from computing, considering, analysing, assessing, overturning or accepting series and codes in a never-ending stream of data that moved lazily from top to bottom. It wasn't difficult though, to keep maintain a sustained level of concentration. She kept her eyes glued to the monitor and imagined the console was alive and speaking to her. She could, if she desired, switch to voice override and listen to a voice that sounded a lot like a female version of the great James T. Kirk. But she hadn't wanted another voice as disturbing and intrusive into her analytical thought processes while she was slowly moving towards a solution.

It was the way she liked working and most of the cadets found it quaint, preferring, unlike her, to work in groups or teams. It wasn't that she didn't like being part of a team; it was simply that she preferred pitting her ingenuity, her wits against a machine, sharpening her already enhanced ability to singe  through a challenging quantum mechanics course, one of the toughest at the Academy.

Now as she entered data and watched how the computations, busy like an overactive brain, flitted across the screen. Her proposal was almost completed and ready for publication. Captain Paris, her mentor and promoter, set impossible standards and she was one of the few who met those standards and produced more. Often she wondered why she worked so hard. She had always been her own  hardest taskmaster, but since her birthday last year... A sigh escaped her. No, not just her birthday. Since Captain Owen Paris - in class they called him Professor Paris - took over the class from Admiral K'lora Hu'samen, she had been on the edge of her seat,  always endeavoring to remain ahead of schedule, never late with assignments or theses, always producing her best, always waiting for his approving nod.

No, it wasn't that she wanted to impress him. But he needled her so much, challenged her to the very core until she never knew whether he smiled because he bested her, or whether he smiled because he approved of her. There had been times she wanted to claw up the wall and score  its very surface in a teeth-chattering high screech because he was so impossible. Then there were times that she fell on her bed after returning from class, head resting on her hands, smiling at the ceiling, telling no one in particular, "Today, Professor Paris gave me the highest score. Professor Paris smiled. I'm glad."

In her second year at the Academy, she was putting forward a proposal usually reserved for the Academy seniors, that elevated assembly of cadets who always walked around imagining they owned the universe. Always just condescending to notice the new cadets of the Academy, she thought of seniors - especially the men - too full of themselves. She smiled inwardly. One day, she'd be in her fourth year too, but she doubted that she'd want to be full of it. Owen Paris himself had broached the idea and she had instantly responded, saying that she already had a theme in mind. He had smiled and her heart burned with pride.

Finally sitting back, Kathryn realised how stifling it was in the dorm. Deciding she needed air, she got up and opened the window overlooking a fine tree-lined lawn where, on benches placed strategically near or under overhanging branches of trees, a few cadets were parked, braving the advent of early spring.

The cadets - she recognised Li Xu Minxia sitting with Terek Ra'mor, a Romulan - looked at ease, as if they never had a tough mid-semester exam looming ahead. On another bench Leandré Jerrold was chatting with... Kathryn drew in her breath. William Riker sat with his arm on the backrest of the bench and he was leaning forward, his head close to Leandré's face.

Giving another sigh, she stepped jerkily away from the window. Two months ago she had rebuffed William Riker's advances. An Academy senior, Kathryn lumped him right along with the other males who thought they owned Starfleet Academy and the universe. A date which she very reluctantly agreed to and then, while at the birthday bash of another senior, she had recoiled when he tried to back her into a wall and kiss her. She had fled the scene, leaving Will Riker behind. The next day, she had apologised for her behaviour and then told him not to see her again. It didn't take him long to find another junior cadet on whom he could practice his charm.

She had work to do. As long as she kept busy, she could forget. Forgetting was a commodity that could only best be done through work, work and more work. Work into the early hours of the morning. Work until she dropped lifelessly on her bed from fatigue.

The door of the dorm flew open, startling her.

"Kathryn! Do you _know_ what day it is?" Shaira Khan, her roommate, asked, appearing totally astonished that she could be doing anything else.

Shaira was breathtaking, her sleek, black hair released from its severe bun at the nape of her neck and hanging loose for once. Her eyebrows were classically shaped and dark against her tanned skin and natural, enhancing a pair of the most beautiful liquid brown eyes Kathryn had ever seen. But Shaira was not conceited about her looks. In fact, she appeared completely unaffected. Kathryn liked her.

Leaning back against her chair, Kathryn looked at her friend.

"I know. It's February the fourteenth."

"And?"

"Yes?"

"Kathryn, what's this in my hand?" Shaira asked, waving something near her face.

Kathryn blinked, tried to duck the offending projectile.

"A card, I swear. A card with a red heart and flowers. A Valentine's card."

"Oh, good. She remembered. Now honey, you are to leave your studies and come outside. Breathe the air, inhale spring, touch the flowers, dip your toes in Boothby's duck pond. Anything, just get outside, will you? Or better still, come with me to the party."

Kathryn looked at the monitor, the flashing data. She turned to Shaira again, Shaira who looked properly crestfallen.

"How about half an hour?"

"How about the rest of the day, Kathryn Janeway?"

"Why?"

Shaira's expression changed instantly, as if she remembered something. Her eyes lit up. Kathryn's heart hammered in hurting beats against her rib cage. She knew what was coming. The proposal and Professor Paris seemed a good way to forget...

"The Carpathia docked this morning."

It was suddenly deadly quiet in the room. Shaira sat down on her own bed and Kathryn stared at her, kept on staring. Her words hung in the air, precariously balanced, ready to drop at the next sound.

"The Carpathia?" she asked.

Shaira got up again and Kathryn didn't move as her roommate crossed to her bed and picked up a book from Kathryn's bed table, letting it rest reverently on her palms.

"One night you left the book open. You were already sleeping and it lay loosely in your hands on the bed. There are rose petals on some pages, Kathryn. Dried petals that still look as though they're alive and fresh and breathing. On page fifty two..."

"Please, it's over, Shaira."

"I love thee in every day's most quiet need..."

"It's just old dreams. They're no longer important."

"There are five rose petals here on this page. You told me once your mother saved the rose you crushed and dried the petals, Kathryn. Keeping them - "

"Means nothing," Kathryn replied with sudden heat, taken the book from Shaira and closing it. "It's none of your business."

She regretted the words the second they were spoken when Shaira's expression changed to hurt, her eyes welling with tears.

"Oh, Shaira... I'm so sorry."

"That's okay, honey. I only sleep in the other bed in this dorm. It means nothing to you alright. I feel stripped and guilty that I didn't make much time when you were in hospital. I never thought I could explain because I had no excuse, you know. And - "

"Don't, Shaira. Everyone was cramming for exams then. I should have understood. It's not your fault. I shouldn't have chased you away that day. I'm sorry, okay?"

Shaira came and knelt in front of her, her hand over Kathryn's hand that clutched the book like a prized possession. Her eyes were kind as they rested on her.

"You shrugged everyone off that time, you know? You're like that. You let no one near you, let no one into your heart. What are you afraid of? That everyone will walk away from you? You love your father, and I know how you want him to be a part of your life, honey. He is, he loves you, but he missed out on so many things that shaped you. Fathers are not magicians, Kathryn..."

"I know," Kathryn replied softly, touching Shaira's cheek with the palm of her hand. "I get morbid at times - "

"Tell me about it!" Shaira said on a lighter note. "You're working away at a proposal for Prof Parisite when you should be outside enjoying yourself. I got a card - "

Shaira jumped up and picked up the card from her bed. Her eyes rolled.

"What's with some guys? Can't they write two words of love poetry together?"

"And you don't know who sent you the card, right?"

"That's the way it is, but honey, I'm going to forget this one. I seem to recall we were talking about you..."

"Forget it, Shaira."

"He's here, in San Francisco. Why don't you - ?"

"I wasn't very kind the times he tried to get in touch, Shaira. Didn't want to see him..."

Shaira stared at her, her beautiful features marred by the way her face creased with concern.

"You haven't seen him?" she asked. "Never laid eyes on him? He left before you regained your sight, I know and maybe you saw a picture of him, but you've never seen him?"

Kathryn sighed.

"No. I wished - " she closed off suddenly. "I wished sometimes I had. He's lost interest. I don't think he will ever try and contact me again. It's over, okay?"

Shaira looked sceptical but Kathryn didn't care. Amahl, as she knew him, was the past. She loved him, had never known that love could be so thrilling. But it was over between them. She had stringently prevented herself from contacting him, finding out more about him. She shrank from such intrusions, knew that it was something he would never appreciate. No one appreciated others meddling into their private lives. Whatever it was that kept him away from her when she most needed him, was in the past. She hadn't wanted to hear any of whatever he was going to offer as an excuse. She had thought he was different from others, from other men. To her terrible hurt he was not much different after all.

She knew that she expected too much, but her first exploration into the terrific maelstrom of emotions love elicited, that threw one into complete selfishness too, had been the most exhilarating experience for her. She knew she allowed it to loom too large in her life, that most men and women probably get over their first loves and the first heady flushes of desire and passion so normally and then they adjust to life, and life goes on.

Not for her. Something remained arrested. If, after nine months, she could no longer cut him out of her life than she could her mother, then something constant must have existed about her feelings. Yet, in the conceit of youth she had given him little chance of explaining himself, remained resolutely unforgiving and as much as told him that his deception and betrayal was the most traumatic thing that happened to her. Not even her accident that blinded her for three weeks could eclipse the pain and bitterness and deep, aching disappointment she felt when he didn't turn up at Indiana.

She had never seen his face, but she lived by every nuance in his voice, the way he said her name; she lived by his touch on her shoulder, relishing, dreaming about their kisses. She lived by the smell of him, the way she nuzzled her face against his chest and committed the musk of his cologne to her memory. Now she had to get on with her life. Amahl was a fleeting moment of it, gone before she had time to tell him how she felt. It was no longer important. She had just been so completely, so utterly destroyed when he let her down, just like the many times her father did.

"He's the past," she whispered softly.

"If you say so, Kathryn," Shaira's voice came to her.

Kathryn shook the memories away and stood up, hugging her roommate.

"Shall we go now?" Shaira asked her when they stood apart. "Leave your proposal - you're way ahead of time anyway - and come with us to the  Valentine celebrations at Hinman's parents' home."

"Cadet Hinman? But Shaira, he never liked me."

"That's only because you put him down so gently, sweetie. He's forgiven you. Haven't you noticed how he smiles more like he just wants to be a friend these days? Just like all of us..."

"Oh, Shaira... I have closed myself off, haven't I?"

"You're forgiven. Now come, let's go, or we'll be late for the transport."

"I have to change..." Kathryn finished lamely, pulled along by Shaira's exuberance and enthusiasm.

"So do I, honey," Shaira replied. "I have to find who my secret admirer is, right?"

"And what if it's Hinman?"

"Oh, spirits save me!"

Minutes later they were dressed in civvies, Kathryn favouring her hair in a French braid and tied behind in a ponytail. She wore a three-quarter length top over a pair of slacks. Shaira was more flamboyant. Ethnic was more like it, Kathryn decided as Shaira wrapped a sari around her and looked uncommonly beautiful.

They proceeded down the turbolifts to the ground floor, making their way through the common room to the street.

Then Shaira stopped suddenly, clutching Kathryn's arm.

"Kathryn...look... Who is that very gorgeous hunk of a lieutenant staring at you?"

On the walkway just outside the entrance Kathryn too, stopped dead in her tracks, frowning.

"I - " she started as she looked at the man.

He was taller than she imagined, far handsomer that her wandering fingers over the planes of his face suggested. There was no trace of the scar against his forehead and he had the deepest dimples she saw in any man. He skin was tanned, very tanned and his hair was pitch black, so black that she wondered idly if they haven't been plucked from a raven's wings and planted against his scalp. His hips were narrow and his uniform fitted snugly to his body. She noted absently what Shaira had seen, the pips denoting his rank of lieutenant. She remembered Shaira's words in their dorm earlier, "The Carpathia docked this morning..."

"Kathryn," Shaira's voice drifted to her in the haze of her recognition of Amahl, "I'll be okay tonight. Don't wait for me. But honey, tell me all about it afterwards. The man is waiting for you..."

Within seconds Shaira had disappeared, leaving Kathryn standing alone on the walkway, facing the man of whom she dreamed too many nights, a man she knew and would always know as Amahl. Her recognition of him was instant, even if she had never seen a picture of him in the Federation database, courtesy the often absent Admiral Janeway who, through her mother, relayed her Amahl's image.

He took a step forward, a hesitant step, it seemed to her. Then another step. She couldn't move. She was frozen into immobility. She wanted to send him away again, was the instinctive though fleeting feeling that welled in her. He deceived her, disappointed her like her father did so many times. He promised everything and delivered nothing. She was tired of that, tired of waiting, tired of looking forward to a face, tired of waiting for 'I'm home!', tired of waiting for a touch, a 'goodnight, Goldenbird', tired of a surge of expectation only to have it crushed brutally in the next instant

This was a vision, a dream, an illusion. She should walk away from it, run a mile from the let-downs, the waiting, the expectations.

She should.

So why couldn't she? Were her eyes wet? she wondered. Did her hands shake and her fingers tremble? Did she want to reach out and touch, this time with wide open eyes, the same face that haunted her dreams, the same strong chin, the nerve that twitched in his jaw, the dimples, run her fingers over those tired eyes?       

It was an illusion, of that she was certain. Maybe she should reach out and touch him and break the horrible, horrible spell.

When a voice sounded, it broke the brief fantasy, became all too real. Her heart hammered hard and erratic. She thought he would never come near her again, never make any contact with her. She thought she had done enough damage to send him away forever. She thought that he had gotten on with his life and forgotten about a poor blind girl who so pathetically yearned for company when she was lying alone in hospital and no one came to visit her.

She thought he was no longer interested in her.

A voice so real, so beloved sounded in the quiet air, her name rolling from his lips like a benediction.

A frightened benediction.

"H-Hello, Kathryn. I'm - "

"Yes, I know, Amahl..."

*********** 

PART THREE

Before the words were out, Chakotay knew he was going to stammer. His heart hammered erratically in furious recognition of hers. She looked... It was indescribable. Her eyes which last year had been concealed behind a visor were blue-grey and no matter how well she had described them to him at the time, it was no equal to what he was seeing.

He thought the sky with its ever-changing hue greys and blues and aquamarines and azures resided in Kathryn Janeway's eyes. It had to be, else how would he have the sensation of flying inside them?

She stood rooted to the spot, much as he felt the moment she alighted onto the walkway with her friend - the same young cadet who fled in tears from Kathryn's  hospital ward last year. He had given the friend a glimpse only, for his eyes feasted on Kathryn. The hunger that had come into his very being, diffused like an osmotic entity, devoid of any shape or form but just being something insistent, sentient, spilling into every vein, seeking a home in every pore of his body until he was one unending mass of need. That hunger never abated and now as she stood there with her gaze so direct, it surfaced and overflowed with full force.

He covered the short distance between them. He had stood on the walkway for almost fifteen minutes pondering on whether to enter the building and now his hands were perspiring as he held the gift to her. That she called him 'Amahl' spread warmly through him. She recognised him, but more than that, she acknowledged him. It was much more than he asked for.

And it was that awareness that made him bold, bolder than he ever thought he could be because he was so afraid she'd send him away again. He was afraid, if truth be told.

"I brought you these..." he said, then waited with excruciating paralysis for her response.

Their hands touched as she took the glass casing from him. It sent shivers through him, a welcome recall of a memory when she stood close to him, her palms splayed across his chest and his own hands covering hers.

"Thank you," came her soft reply. Then for a few moments she remained quiet as she admired the roses. "It's very beautiful, Amahl..."

He wanted to die.

"Kathryn, my name is - "

"Chakotay. I know."

Her eyes had been on the roses, widening at the way the tiny irrigation tubes sprayed the fresh blooms with a fine mist just at that moment. 

"I should have told you. I - "

Then she looked up. He thought the mist had come to stay in her eyes too.

"But I think of you as Amahl."

He gave a tight smile, too afraid to relax.

"It was wrong of me. I deceived you. I have - " he paused, picturing his mother as she lay dying, her eyes only on him, her first born, contrary son who left her world in anger. Everything he was, his heritage, his constant fight against his tribe, rejecting their ways, their faith, their sky spirits...everything wiped away in the hours his mother's hand lay in his, never taking her eyes off him. He made her suffer the most. He was young, reckless, thoughtless. The contemptible and selfish dalliances of youth which brooked no objections, concern, compassion, love from their elders but rather jeered at tradition and beliefs, humiliated parents, demanding total understanding of such vagaries and never once, in all of their unrestrained uttering from the mouth, could find any time or the words to say 'Forgive me' or 'I love you'. He could not say to his mother 'my youth was my excuse'. For as much as that could possibly be held up as one, he also had an intellect, a conscience, the intrinsic knowledge inculcated by the very persons whom he derided for their quaintness and lack of understanding that he could distinguish between right and wrong, good and evil. He had a will and to be held hostage by his thoughtlessness and brooding pursuit of an ideal not of their understanding was unpardonable.

No, he couldn't tell Kathryn all of this. It was still too fresh, too close to the heart. He had no excuse.

"I had no excuse..." he said finally.

"Amahl," she said, her mouth curving into a smile he remembered so well, "please, could you come inside? People are watching..."

He relaxed only slightly as he followed her into the foyer to the common room which he noticed was empty. She sat down on a sofa and placed the roses on the coffee table. He sat opposite her. He knew she was waiting for him to explain. What could he say?

"I wasn't sure that you would see me, much less invite me in," he started. "You pretty much told me to go to hell and - "  He paused, tried not to think of his mother's eyes.

"What, Amahl?"

"I've been there..." he whispered.

Kathryn nodded, and he was still not entirely certain that he was forgiven.

"Where is hell, Amahl?" she asked and for a moment her eyes were bitter. "Where I had been, waiting for you? You never came, never breathed a word. It was as if you vanished in the galaxy, not wanting to be found. You - you could at least have said something, even if it was that you couldn't come..."

He sighed deeply. What could he say? His father's sad eyes unsettled him. The same eyes that always forgave, always told him that being a contrary meant being accountable, eyes that loved, eyes that, no matter how Kolopak disguised them, were filled with accusation. He knew his father couldn't help it, but that was what he saw, and that was his hell.

"If - if I told you that I was called away to my homeworld, would you believe me?"

"There must have been a reason, Amahl."

"Chakotay, Kathryn. I am Chakotay," he blurted, suddenly hating the name Amahl, his great-grandfather's name.

"There must have been a reason, Amahl," she insisted.

"Kathryn..."

He rose unsteadily to his feet, wanting to walk out into the late afternoon sun and walk away forever.

"It's not easy."

"You haven't tried me, Amahl."

He sighed again, deeply.

"My mother died, Kathryn, and my father blamed me for her death..."

Then he turned on his heel, finding his way outside, walking, walking. It was stupid. Kathryn would understand, wouldn't she? Or she would never understand, would she? The day suddenly darkened for him. And though it was a cloudless sky, it was dim around him, settling him the inherited gloom. He heard again his father's heated outburst, the outpouring of a man in pain, hurting deeply because his wife died pining away for a son who said he'd never return to his roots, who told his mother that love was nothing but an unfair demand on loyalty.

He kept walking, though he knew not where he was heading. Direction and point of destination was of no consequence. He kept seeing his mother's eyes, then his father's eyes and finally, the healthy blue-grey of Kathryn's. His feet carried him until at length he hit something, his turbulent thoughts clearing for a moment to reveal the same bench he and Kathryn frequented when she was in hospital. He sat down, leaning forward, head in his hands.

"I am not worthy, Father, of carrying your name..."

He could hear his own words, fired in the cauldron of sadness and guilt and doom and joyless acceptance. Hannah lay dead, her eyes still open, stilled in the last, final gasp of death's breath, staring at him. It was not the eyes of a dead woman, though she had stopped breathing. Her eyes were like they had always been when he was a young boy, seeking her advice, massaging her aching muscles. They rested on him in the generosity of her unconditional love for him. No recrimination stared at him through those eyes, eyes that were supposed to hate, to berate, to blame and accuse, though they had a right to. She pined for you, my son, was what his father said. She never stopped listening for your voice or your footsteps or your laughter, he said. You never laughed much, my son, but your mother heard your laughter, heard them from the moment you were born, my contrary son.. 

How could eyes look so alive in death? They followed him everywhere and more than ever amplified his guilt. They followed him and at times changed painfully into Kathryn's eyes. They followed him and told him that in doing one's duty, one often had to make sacrifices.

He lost Kathryn. Hardly had they begun something he thought could impact forever on his life, than it ended. An encounter that changed his life, knowing Kathryn. He pictured Kathryn, sightless, yet able to pierce him, gaze deep into his soul. Sightless eyes, yet so alive.

And for one moment, one brief, mad moment in which Hannah's face flashed before him, he wished that Kathryn had known his mother.

**

Amahl's gift was safe in her room. She had not been shocked or perturbed by the way he had rushed away from her. It was not her he was running from, and that awareness made her trace her steps slowly to her room where she carefully placed his flowers on her bed stand. Then, clutching her collection of poems, she went downstairs again and walked in the direction she had seen him stumble away from her.

Somehow she had known when she sat own next to him on the bench, that it would be the place where he had brought her when she had been in hospital. In the greatest detail and with infinite patience he had described for her their surroundings then, been her eyes when she couldn't see the beauty of it. There was the duck pond, the tiny chicks now grown into young ducks gliding away on the water. Here and there were water-lilies and illogically she pictured a frog sitting on a broad leaf with a crown on its head. The lawn sloped downwards and just beyond the pond a copse of elm trees broke the skyline with their cloud-like shaped branching. In the distance she could see the buildings of Starfleet Headquarters. Behind them was the hospital and to the left the Academy buildings.

Amahl - it was hard thinking of him as Chakotay - sat with bent head, his fingers laced, clamped so hard that she could see the white of his knuckles. He was in pain. Only a few words and his eyes became a window in which she saw how he hurt. So many things became clear - his reticence to talk of his family. He had always been so guarded when it came to talking about them and the few crumbs of information he had given her were not nearly enough to prepare her for the force of the guilt she saw in his eyes.

She reached for his hands and rested her own hand on his. He remained like that, not looking up or acknowledging her presence. She was beginning to know a part of him where she had to tread with care and compassion and intuitive awareness that her initial assessment of him was right: she couldn't intrude on his pain. Gone were her own selfish recriminations, the way she felt he deceived her, feeling lost and deserted by him.

His mother died. He had gone to his homeworld to be with her at the last. The way he said it held the world of hurt. He would tell her more one day, in his own time.

That was enough for her, now. It was more than enough. It was the most agonisingly obvious reason and justification for leaving on the day he had to come to Indiana. She had been selfishly blaming him and no amount of telling herself that he could at least have said he was going, was enough to expiate her own guilt.

"Chakotay..." she said his name.

It was a long time before the angry fingers unlaced, he bore his frame back into an upright stance and turned his head so that he faced her. She smiled hesitantly, feeling completely unsure of his next movement. A hesitance that he noticed, for a hand - the same angry hand that moments ago knotted together in rage or pain, she knew not which, or perhaps both - came up and cupped her cheek. It felt warm and damp at the same time, but mostly, it felt warm. His eyes were dark, brooding, unhappy and for a moment she wished she could hear him laugh.

"I missed you. You cannot know how much. It wasn't easy, getting over you, to forget a young ensign soon to be lieutenant who came to my rescue and became my eyes. I couldn't forget you and I couldn't forget that you deceived me by trying to be someone you're not. I couldn't forget that you disappointed me so deeply. I waited for you, almost the whole night through. And when I thought you wouldn't come anymore, I crushed the rose you gave me, tore its petals one by one. I destroyed something beautiful and you know, it's not in my nature to destroy things. I did your rose that day..."

"Forgive me, Kathryn."

"Then I waited for days, weeks...hoping you'd contact me. I didn't know you as Chakotay..." Kathryn sighed, then breathed in slowly again, trying to calm her turbulent emotions. "And then I found that being Amahl was the same as being Chakotay. You couldn't have taken a name just to be someone else without any thought to it. Is that so, Amahl?"

Did she note a new shine settling in his dark, brooding, unhappy eyes?

"It was my great-grandfather's name."

"And part of who you are. You chose something that defined you, even though you thought it would be a good idea to be incognito... Why, Amahl?"

He looked away into the distance, over the tops of the elms. Perhaps he too, had seen the lone bird hovering there against the sky.

"I was afraid to meet you..." he said at length.

"And then, when you were there, Amahl, I was afraid you would leave and never come back. I yearned to hear your voice again, angry that I couldn't see you..."

He turned to her, a smile changing his face into wondrous relief.

"And then, when I saw you, I knew I would never be alone again. Only..."

Before he lapsed into the dark mood again, she showed him her book, the collection of poems he once came to fetch for her. She opened it, showing him page after page where she had placed the dried rose petals, still looking fresh, their colour unchanged, soft white merging into an even softer peach and pink.

"Kathryn...?"

"My mother rescued your rose. It lies between these pages, making it alive again," she said, and when he wanted to take the book from her, she held it back, and turned to a page, keeping her finger there as a marker.

"Last year, Amahl, you read me this poem, and I'd like to read a part of it to you..."

He nodded, still smiling, his face becoming clearer, dearer.

 _I would like to give you the silver_  
 _branch, the small white flower, the one_  
 _word that will protect you_  
 _from the grief at the center_  
 _of your dream, from the grief_  
 _at the center. I would like to follow_  
 _you up the long stairway_  
 _again & become_  
 _the boat that would row you back_  
 _carefully, a flame_  
 _in two cupped hands_  
 _to where your body lies_  
 _beside me, and you enter_  
 _it as easily as breathing in_  
  
_I would like to be the air_  
 _that inhabits you for a moment_  
 _only. I would like to be that unnoticed_  
 _ & that necessary_

Her hand became lifeless as she tried to hold on to the book. Chakotay rescued it, putting it beside him on the bench. Then he took her hands in his, still smiling, so much smiling that her heart couldn't stop fluttering like mad.

"Thank you, Kathryn. I always liked that poem. I read it all the time on the Carpathia... I - "

"What?"

"Often wondered if you'd forgotten about me. I - I couldn't forget you. I don't think I could ever forget you..."

He let his words trail, giving a little cough, suddenly embarrassed.

"Neither could I," she replied and felt like jumping up and rejoicing and laughing.

"I'd like to get to know you better, Kathryn Janeway."

She was lifted high, released from the terrible burden of gloom she had felt since his disappearance

without ever knowing where he had gone to. It had been hard, trying to forget him, making alive memories she knew would eventually one day fade to a gentle reminder that once, a man named Chakotay who called himself Amahl, was her first love. She was realistic enough to understand that wherever their path might lead together there would be thorns and thistles. She would want to be at the centre of his dreams where anguish dwelt, just as she knew that was where he would want to be too, so that they could protect one another and offer solace through a word, a gesture, a touch.

She leaned forward and cupped his cheek.

"I'd like that, Amahl. I'd like that very much..."

********** 

THE END

 

 

**Excerpt from the the poem "Variations on the word sleep" by Margaret Atwood**


End file.
